


Comfort

by Marrilyn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Binge Drinking, Comfort, Confessions, Drinking, Drunkenness, F/F, Feels, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hangover, Hurt/Comfort, Loving Rowena, Magic, Murder, Rowena Is a Sweetheart, Sweet Rowena, Tears, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-30 03:14:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10152206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marrilyn/pseuds/Marrilyn
Summary: Following a traumatic event, reader drowns her sorrows and Rowena comforts her.





	

If someone had told you a week ago that you'd be drunk out of your mind in the cheapest, sleaziest bar the filthy town you were in at the moment had to offer, you would have called them insane. Rightfully so.

Yet that's exactly where you were, hugging the dirty bar, your head slouched over your outstretched arm, a trail of drool sliding down your chin. Your other hand held an empty glass of whatever the fuck it was that you just drained.

You lost track of what and how much you were drinking about an hour ago, instead opting to focus solely on forgetting the reason you came here in the first place. Something, you thought miserably, you haven't even managed to accomplish. The memories were still there, fresh and vivid in your mind; somehow, the more you drank, the livelier they became. Which only prompted you to drink more, because in your state of mind, when more alcohol doesn't help at all, the solution is to drink even more than that. Because logic.

"More," you slurred, pushing the glass over to the bartender, who shook his head in disapproval.

"I'm sorry, but I can't do that. You've had too much."

"Aww, come on," you sulked, pouting like a petulant child. "Just one more glass. Please."

"I'm sorry."

"You're no fun," you whined.

He chuckled lightly. "Everyone says that."

"They're not wrong."

"Probably not," he allowed. "At least I'm not drunk in a cheap-ass bar."

Touché.

"You're just like the rest of them," you complained. Then, remembering _his_ nasty face, tears prickled at your eyes and in a moment you had a nasty stream rushing down your rosy cheeks. "Just like _him."_

Sensing where this was going, the bartender asked: "Can I call someone to pick you up"

"Why"?" you demanded, a tad harsher than you intended. "You kicking me out?"

"It's policy."

"Fuck policy!" You giggled as you thought of the famous song. "Fuck the police!"

He laughed along. "So? Got anyone for me to call?"

"Nope," you said, popping the P.

"Listen," he said, growing serious, "you either let me call someone to come get you, or security will kick you out alone when they see you. And they _will_ see you."

"Let them try!" you dared.

"It's dangerous to be out alone at this time."

You laughed smugly. "Can't do nothing to me. I'm a witch."

"Of course you are."

"Y'know, _he_ didn't believe me, either. But I showed him. I did!" You burst into tears yet again. "I showed him! He can't doubt me anymore."

"That's great. Now give me your phone."

Weeping, having completely given up, you reached into your pocket and pulled out your smartphone before handing it to the expecting bartender.

"Thank you. It's a smart decision."

"I haven't been making many of those lately."

"See? Improvement! Now who do you want me to call?"

Only one name instantly popped up in your mind. She would understand. She wouldn't patronize you or call your names. She'd listen, and probably tell you you did great. She'd give a damn about you.

You could really use some of that right now.

"Rowena."

* * *

It didn't take her long to arrive. Ten minutes after the call was made, Rowena strutted into the bar in all her glory, shining like always, dressed in one of her glamorous dresses and high heels that didn't make her look as tall as she intended them to (thought you wouldn't dare say that to her face. Her glares scared the hell out of you). She couldn't have looked more out of place in a cheap bar if she tried.

"Y/N," she called, walking over to you. She looked you up and down, and her face wrinkled in distaste, passing silent judgment. You could tell she loathed the mere idea of this place. Being here must have been driving her insane.

Usually, you'd offer to go somewhere nicer, but this time you didn't really give a damn whether she liked the place or not. This was your bar. It was your money that got spent on those cheap-ass drinks (that weren't even half bad, mind you), and your drool that pooled on the wooden bar. She had no right to judge you.

"Wena!" you squealed like an overly enthusiastic child, attempting to throw your arms around her, but collapsing back onto the bar as soon as you attempted to push yourself up.

She rolled her eyes at you, obviously not amused. She wasn't impressed by your behavior, and she was even less impressed with you embarrassing her in public. The powerful witch had a reputation to uphold, even if those laughing at her happened to be barely literate hicks missing half their teeth.

Image, at least to Rowena, was everything.

"What are ye doin' in this godawful place?"

"Drinkin'!" you exclaimed, mocking her accent.

She sighed, bringing her hand to her head to facepalm.

"You're Rowena?" the bartender spoke up before she could say another word.

"Yes, that's me." She pulled on an obviously fake smile, not bothering to hide the fact that the bar's mere existence offended her.

"Take her home, will you? She can't be here anymore."

"That's what I'm here for, isn't it?" she deadpanned.

The bartender, sensing her open dislike for both him and the bar, walked off to greet other customers.

"You came," you said, smiling up at her. It was strange to have her towering over you; usually it was Rowena who had to look up to meet your eyes. You giggled at the thought. "I'm shorter than you! You're, like, really tall now! How awesome is that?"

She didn't bother dignify that with an answer. "Look at ye! What'd ye do to yerself?"

"I wanted to forget," you admitted, cheeriness draining from your face, morphing into a sad, crestfallen look. You could feel tears prickling at your eyes again, and you tried your hardest to hold them back. You've had enough crying fits for one night.

"Forget what?"

"I did it! The thing you do, with the hex bag. I gave it to him and said the word and he went poof!" You motioned with your hands, wildly waving them around. Tears started falling again, clouding your already blurry vision. "There was fire – a lot of fire – and the smell… it was terrible! Wena, I… I was so scared."

Her eyes narrowed at you. "Y/N, what did ye do?" she asked, growing concerned.

Ignoring her question, you pushed your remaining strength into your elbows, attempting to straighten yourself. Rowena instantly reached to help you, putting her arms around you. You took the chance to lean against her and bury your head into her chest.

She was warm, you noticed. So warm and safe and cuddly, and you didn't want to leave her side ever again.

If she'd been with you back then, none of this would have happened. You wanted her to be there from now on, never to leave. You didn't think you could handle being away from her again.

"Wena, help me! I can't do this! It's too much!" you wept loudly. "I can't do it alone."

"Shh," she comforted, her expression softening, and gently patted your back. She wasn't the kind to show emotions, but whenever you needed her, you could always count on her to be kind. It was a side she only showed you, your own little secret you cherished greatly. "It's fine, dear. Ye're fine."

"I'm far from fine."

"I'm here now," she cooed gently, almost motherly. "Let me take care of ye, will ye?"

"Please," you whimpered. "Make it go away."

"I will, dear. Everythin's goin' to be fine. Come with me now, okay? Let us get out of this godawful place."

"You won't leave me?"

"Never, Y/N. Never."

"Promise."

"Aye."

"I need you."

"I know, darlin'," she whispered softly. "I know."

She helped you up, putting her thin arm around your waist to steady you. You weren't quite sure how she managed to guide you, being rather miniature in comparison to your tall stature, not at all helped by your high heels, but she did it without complaining.

All the way over to the taxi waiting outside amidst a mess of old, dirty cars.

* * *

There were days when you wished you were dead.

This was one of those days.

Your head throbbed as though thousands of hammers beat into it. You took a long moment to open your eyes; your hands were quickly over them as rays of bright morning sun shot through the window, temporarily blinding you. You groaned as a pang of pain shot through your already achy head, then let out a rather unladylike whine.

Who the fuck opened the blinds? Who could be that cruel?

You got your answer when a Scottish–accented voice said: "Mornin', dear."

Of course it was her. Who else would dare mess with you in such a state?

"Wena?" you called out, squinting through the pain to see her. She was seated on the sofa placed by the bed, legs elegantly crossed one over the other, wearing her usual glamorous attire of ridiculously high heels and a gown more suitable for a ball than a – hotel room, was it? You couldn't tell exactly where you were, but knowing Rowena, it had to have been the most expensive hotel around.

Which, considering the blatant dilapidation of the town, probably wasn't all that expensive or luxurious.

"Shut the blinds."

"No."

"Please."

She shook her head. "No."

Why was she torturing you? You already felt like you were hit by a truck, twice, then ran over by a speeding train and thrown in a dumpster. You didn't need her pettiness atop all that.

Why did she have to be such a _mom?_

"Don't be cruel."

She shot you a pointed look, and you began to mentally prepare for a lecture. Her looking at anyone, especially you, like that never meant anything good.

"I've had a rough day. I don't need this right now," you said, hoping to get her to go easy on you.

Memories of yesterday afternoon blared in your mind, flashing before your eyes in a never-ending loop. You would never get those pictures out of your head. What you did – what you made yourself do – would haunt you forever, eating at your conscience like acid slowly burning through your flesh.

"A rough _night,_ I'd say," Rowena commented, her expression softening, the sternness vanishing in a flash, replaced by a look of genuine concern. "What were ye doin' in that wretched bar, of all places?"

You shrugged. "It was cheap, and I needed a drink. Or several."

"And ye couldn't call me?"

She looked kind of hurt by your rejection, and you felt a tad bad. You never meant to hurt her. You just needed some time for yourself, away from everyone you knew. All you wanted was to forget, to get lost in the fog and, for at least a few hours, stop feeling for it hurt too much to breathe.

"I couldn't be around you," you admitted. "I… I needed to forget."

"Forget what?" Rowena asked, genuinely curious.

A lone tear slid down your cheek, and you were quick to wipe it away. "What I did."

"And what did ye do?"

"I… I messed up. Rowena, I messed up. I…"

You buried your head in your hands, sobbing loudly, all dignity thrown to the wind. You couldn't keep it in anymore, all the pain, the hurt; it was eating you alive, consuming your soul like a phantom in need of feed. Besides, she's already seen you cry multiple times. There was no point hiding it.

Rowena was quickly by your side, throwing her arms around you and pulling you close. You sobbed into her gown, the soft fabric caressing your face. Her hands lightly patted her back as she whispered soft "shhs" in a futile attempt to calm you.

"Relax, darlin'. Everythin's goin' to be fine."

Her voice was sweet, gentle, a soothing melody to your ears. It was one of the many things you loved about her – she knew what to say, and she knew exactly how to say it. She chose her words carefully and picked her tone of voice with care. The perks of dating a mother, you guessed. It was only natural for her to know how to comfort.

She didn't use that ability all that often, but it was there, and you were grateful to have her in your life. You didn't know what you would have done if she wasn't there to tell you what you needed to hear exactly when you needed it, to wrap her arms around you in your worst of moments, and to hold your hand when you sought reassurance.

You shook your head, a new wave of tears filling up your red-framed, swollen eyes. "It won't."

"It will," she assured you. "Trust me."

"You can't promise me that."

"I assure you I can. Now tell me what happened. What did ye do?"

"I… I killed him," you wept.

Anyone else would have ran away screaming at that confession, but not Rowena. She was used to murder – used to death – having committed more of it than you probably ever will in your lifetime.

As if on instinct, her hold on you tightened; she pulled you closer, her arms holding on to you like she had no intention of ever letting you leave, like she wanted to stay that way forever, with you in her arms, safe from any harm.

"Who?" she asked simply. She didn't need an explanation. You doing it was everything she needed to know

Reasons didn't matter. You did.

"My dad," you said.

Another memory hit you – a hex bag being pushed into his hands, his body catching fire, his screams as flames devoured him. You squeaked, pushing your face harder against her chest, embracing her so your fingers could press into her back, digging into her skin through the fabric of her gown.

"Oh, darlin'…" Rowena cooed, lowering her head to kiss the top of yours.

She knew how much you hated your dad. Knew about everything he'd done to you when you were a child. Knew about his violence, about his nasty words. She knew it all. How could she not, when you'd drink yourself to oblivion every time he'd send a message and go on hour-long tirades of just how bad he was, listing all the things he'd done to you and your mother.

When you bumped into him yesterday and he invited you to get coffee, you only went because, like every time you'd see him, he seemed genuinely interested in mending your relationship. Just like he'd seemed genuinely interested six months ago, and a year ago, and all those times before.

Rowena always told you to tell his sorry ass to piss of. And you did, but there is a big difference between sending a nasty text and actually looking someone in the eye.

Looks can deceive, and actors can act. And act he did.

It didn't take long for him to revert to his usual state. This time it was something you said that he misinterpreted as a personal insult. It started with the usual, screaming obscenities loud enough for everyone to hear. That, while unpleasant and certainly embarrassing, you could handle. You have, after all, been there before.

It was when he started insulting your dead mother that you finally lost it. You pulled a hex bag out of your bag, Rowena's gift for successfully casting a rather difficult spell you'd been practicing for ages, and shoved it into his hands, muttering a word you'd heard Rowena say many times.

Soon enough he burst into flames, screaming at the top of his lungs, flailing around as the staff and some patrons attempted to put out the fire. Their efforts were futile; a fire forged by magic couldn't be extinguished that easy. The smell of charred flesh burned your nostrils, and you turned on your heel, running as far away as possible, your father's burning form seared into your mind for all of eternity.

"He deserved it," you said, more to yourself than to her.

Rowena would never ask you to justify your actions. You, yourself, however, needed it. You needed a reason, and you needed it to be a good one. It was the only way you could live with what you've done.

"I know he did," she said.

"Why do I feel like this, then? Why does it hurt so much?"

"He was your father, dear. As much as ye loathed him, there must've been a part of ye that still loved him."

Something about the way she said it made you wonder whether she was speaking from experience.

Her words made sense, but you didn't want them to. You refused to accept that you felt anything but contempt for that monster that destroyed your life before you even knew what life was, ruining all your chances of a good, happy future. How could your heart betray you in such a cruel way, to feel love for someone like that?

"How do you do it?" you asked. "How do you kill and not feel anything?"

"Ye could say I got used to it," she replied. "I was a wee lass when I first tasted blood, not much older than ye. Nearly killed me. But I kept doin' it. Pushed myself to do it over and over again until I stopped feelin'. My father… he was my first, like yers. And, the strange thing is, the second kill hurt more than the first one. I loathed that man. Wanted him gone since I was a wee child. Killing him… Ye could say I was conflicted over it."

No wonder you two clicked almost instantly. Misery, as it turns out, truly does love company.

"I don't think I can do it again," you said. "Not yet. I'm not ready. This… it's too much. I can't go through it again."

"I'm not someone ye should aspire to be. The things I've done… I wish I could take them back. But ye – ye're different. Ye have heart, somethin' I lost centuries ago."

"You wouldn't be here if you didn't have heart," you commented, prompting her to pull on a light smile.

"Perhaps I still have some left," she allowed. "Ye don't have to kill just because ye're a witch, Y/N. That's not the main purpose of magic. I was wrong in thinkin' so. Ye don't have to be like me. Ye can be better, more responsible. Even…" She rolled her eyes at the mere idea of it. "Good."

"I _do_ want to be like you," you said. "You're awesome, and badass, and powerful. It's a privilege to even be taught by you, let alone date you. I love you so much. I couldn't have chosen a better person to aspire to."

Rowena gently pushed you back, her palms cupping your cheeks in her bony hands. Her eyes, looking straight into yours, were wide, filled with tears she was desperately trying to hold back. "Ye're makin' this ol' witch cry, darlin'."

You allowed yourself to smile. "You're not _that_ old."

"No, I'm not," she agreed, laughing.

She leaned down, pressing her forehead against yours, her silky bangs caressing your skin like the softest fabric.

"What ye're feelin' will pass. Just give it time. Guilt is nothin' to be ashamed of. Ye're only human."

Something in her voice broke, and she paused for a moment to take a few breaths to compose herself. Looking up, you could see tears welling up in her emerald eyes. Did she miss the guilt you were feeling? Did she miss that piece of her old self she's done her best to leave behind all those centuries ago, the one that, despite her claiming otherwise, wasn't gone completely, its pieces rushing to surface whenever you found yourself in need of her care?

You always knew there was more to Rowena than met the eye, but this? To think she was holding all of this in was outrageous. She should have told you, you thought. She should have let you know how she felt. You would have been there for her just like she was there for you.

"Hold onto that, will ye?" she continued through trembling lips. "Yer humanity. Don't do what I did."

"What if it gets too much?"

If she was still hurting, after three hundred years of feeling the bare minimum, what hope was there for you?

"I will help ye get through it. Whatever happens, I'm here," she promised.

"Thank you, Rowena," you said. "Thank you so much. I don't know what I would've done if you weren't here."

You pulled her into a tight, firm hug, your head leaning against her shoulder for support. Her arms instinctively wrapped around you, fingers gently tapping your back. You loved having her close, holding you, loving you as much as you loved her.

Despite what everyone else said, Rowena could feel. She could smile and laugh and care and cherish just like every other person.

Just like those who slandered her in such horrific ways.

Just like you.

She was very good at hiding it, preferring to appear cold rather than caring for parts of her still considered love a weakness, but you knew she loved you dearly, with all of her heart.

"Ye don't have to thank me," she whispered softly.

You smiled. "I love you."

"I love ye, too."

You would never tire of hearing her say that. There were times when you wondered if this, all of this, was real. If she, one of the most powerful witches that ever lived, was really there with you, or if it was all a dream.

 _You're real,_ you thought, pressing a soft kiss to her neck. _You're here. I love you so much._

"It's not too late for you to regain your humanity, you know," you told her. "It's never too late for a change."

"I've done horrible things."

"You can do better."

"Ye really think so?"

"I know so. You're Rowena fucking MacLeod. There's nothing you can't do."

She chuckled. "Thank you, dear."

"Always, sweetheart. Don't ever hesitate to ask for help, okay? Everything you're giving me I will give back. I won't leave you. Just call and I'll be there."

Instead of replying, she freed herself from your arms, taking your hands into hers, eyes locking with yours. At first you just sat there, enjoying the serene, quiet moment, your long fingers playing with her short, thin ones.

Then your lips met in a sweet, tender kiss and everything, all the pain and hurt, at least for a short while, disappeared into oblivion. Nothing else mattered anymore, only you and her; partners, lovers, centers of your own little universe where nothing else bore any importance but you.

Your joy.

Your happiness.

Your love.

_You._


End file.
